Announcement

Hi people!

It is with a heavy heart that I announce the closing of this blog. I will leave it open to access older memories, but all activities will now move to suffianhakim.com. This includes all work-related entries and my works of fiction. This, of course, includes Harris bin Potter.

See you guys at my new website!

Harris bin Potter And The Stoned Philosopher

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Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

Author's note:

Last we saw Harris bin Potter, he was undergoing the sorting ceremony at Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sorting songkok had put him in Fandi Ahmad house, where he was joined by his newfound friends Ron and Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut.

Some of my friends have been asking, “Why are we waiting so long for chapter 3?” My PR answer for that will be, “I’ve been focusing on work – haven’t really had the time to write racist parodies of Harry Potter.” But my honest answer is, “I’ve been too busy getting laid. You guys should try it sometime.”

Well, it’s been almost a year since my last visit to the Harris bin Potter universe, so let’s not wait some more…

Chapter 3: The Mirror of Tatnap, Part 1

After the last student had been sorted (Beach Boys Zsa Zsa was put in Sheikh Haikel), Professor McGongcha called for the students to settle down and take their seats.

The buzz only died when an old, wizened wizard rose and took to the lectern. This wizard was so old, you could make Yo Mama-style jokes about him:

“Yo check it, this wizard so old, when God said ‘Let There Be Light’, he told God to stop it with all that racket.”

“This wizard so old, the first fashion trend he followed was loincloth.”

“This wizard so old, he delivered yo mama.”

The students watched in rapt attention as the wizard laid out his speech notes on the lectern before him.

“OOH!” he said, his majestic voice booming across The Great Hall. “You touch my TRA-LA-LA.”

“MMM!” the wizard said again. “My DING-DING-DONG.”

Nebulous chatter broke out as the students expressed their confusion.

“Oh my apologies, these are the lyrics to my favourite song. I must have mistaken them for my notes.” He fished in his wizard robes, and extracted another piece of paper.

“Ah! Here we go. Welcome, young ones,” he said, “to a new school year at Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

The Great Hall broke into cheers and applause, the students expressing their joy at returning to the world of magic, mystery, friendship, and not having to touch the old wizard’s ‘ding-ding-dong’.

“To the first years, I am Pakcik Dollah, your Headmaster,” he continued. “To the others, I hope you had a good holiday. I leave the first-years in your capable hands – as older brothers and sisters, friends, and role models.”

Harris looked across the Fandi Ahmad table at the older students. There was the exuberant Ahmad Onyofaise-Beegdiss Grays, who was part of the school’s Dikir Barat troupe The Hisap Bodohs. They were famous for their renditions of Satay Aku Lagi Besar Dari Kau Punya, Eh Itu Seluar Dalam Kau Sial and Siapa Bapak Kau? Then there was the Head Prefect, Samad Deetolmee, a tall, burly boy with a surly disposition. It was easy to be friends with him, provided you spoke his language – a mix of guttural grunts, unintelligible bellows and irritated murmurs.

The Fandi Ahmad table, Harris noted, was also the only one to boast twin twins. The first pair of twins were Ron’s elder brothers, Alfredo and Jorge (named after an Italian-Mexican gay couple who were friends with Ron’s father) and the other were the Caucasian girls, iPadma and iPodma. Caucasians were a rare sight in Hog-Tak-Halal-What, possibly because of its dire lack of McDonald’s but probably because those damn white people would rather send their kids to Hogwarts, a wizarding school in England that stole its name from Hog-Tak-Halal-What.

When Harris turned to Pakcik Dollah again, the old wizard had a look of extreme seriousness on his face. “Before we begin our feast, I would like to remind all students that entering the Forbidden Forest is discouraged, unless accompanied by a teacher. The twenty-fourth room on the seventh floor corridor, however, is ABSOLUTELY off-limits, unless you wish to die a most gruesome, horrible death.”

Harris and Ron turned to one another immediately. “We HAVE to go to the twenty-fourth room on the seventh floor corridor,” they chorused, sitcom cliché-style.

Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut looked admonishingly at them, but before she could tell them off, Pakcik Dollah spoke again. “While we eat, our very own Dikir Barat troupe, The Hisap Bodohs, will entertain us with a dikir barat entitled Ikan Kekek Mak Iloi Iloi, Ikan Jaws – KI MAK! TOLONG!”

“Now’s the perfect time!” Ron said. "Let's go check it out!"

“Guys!” Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut hissed as Harris and Ron got off their seats. “You are not breaking the rules!”

When her two friends ignored her and pressed on, she got off her seat and chased after them. Harris and Ron were almost at the door when they were stopped by Samad Deetolmee, the unintelligible Head Prefect. “Whgrrrr argghhhh you hngging?” (Translation: “Where are you going?”)

Harris and Ron took awhile to understand Samad. That was not enough, so they took awhile more. Finally, Harris said, “Sorry?”

“Whgrrr argghhh you hngging?”

“No, me not Hngging. Me Harris,” Harris said.

“WHGRRR ARGGHHH YOU HNGGING?”

“Uhhh, yeah, uhhh we hangin’ good! Hey hey!” Ron tried.

“WWHHHGGGGRRR ARGGHHH YOU HHNNNGGING!!??”

By then, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut had caught up with them. She pushed her two friends aside, faced Samad, and said, “WARGGHHHWHIZZ MUSTAFA CENTRE AFSHHGHGGHHRRR!!”

Samad smiled – it was a creepy, unnatural smile, like that of a baby troll’s. He then allowed them to leave and returned to his seat.

“Wow Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut that was awesome! I thought he’d never allow us to leave. What did you tell him?” Ron asked his friend, impressed.

“I just told him we’re going to the toilet,” she replied, as the trio left the Great Hall, heading for the twenty-fourth room on the seventh floor corridor.

A Harris bin Potter Hari Raya Special

(Before we go into the expository madness of Chapter 3, here is a little story from Harris bin Potter's earlier childhood. I need to thank Munira Maricar for that brilliant one-liner, and Sean Lee for agreeing to have a character styled after him. Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri everybody!)

There are several things that many Malay people do not know. That is not to say that Malay people are predisposed to not know things - that would be a horribly racist statement to make, even if the author himself is Malay. I am sure other cultures have varying degrees of ignorance in certain areas as well. The Hutu tribes of Central Africa, for example, are not well-versed in igloo construction. And ketupat-weaving, probably.

One thing many Malay people do not know is that the word they use to refer to fasting, 'puasa', is a loan word from the Sanskrit 'upavasa', which means 'an abstinence from sensual or corporeal indulgence'.

"You know what a lot of Malay people don't know?" Cik Petom was asking her family as they sat around the dining table, preparing to break fast. "That I invented the word 'puasa'."

"Wow!" her son, Dumbass, said, duly impressed. "I thought Zubir Said invented it?"

"No, son," the boy's father, Pak Pandir, corrected him. "Zubir Said invented the Shuffle, which is a kind of dance that gay people and accountants perform at night clubs."

As you can tell, Cik Petom and her family were the kind of Singaporeans whose ignorance can only be matched by their ability to draw pride from achievements that were not their own. They were the kind who would interrupt an acceptance speech by Taylor Swift and say that they had the best damn video of all time.

What you might not be able to tell about Cik Petom and her family is the secret they keep in their closet. This was literal - it wasn't that Pak Pandir was dying to bust his feather boa out for a Cher concert, or that Cik Petom too strongly related to an Icelandic prime minister whose time had finally come, and might take offence at such an obscure reference to lesbianism. No, the secret in their closet was - 

The radio played the azan, and Cik Petom and her family began to gobble their food.

"What about him?" Cik Petom asked her husband, gesturing towards the closet.

"A boy like him? Of course he doesn't fast! He's not strong like our Dumbass."

"Fasting is difficult, but I am the only 9-year-old who can do it," Dumbass proudly proclaimed as he heartily assaulted a large whole chicken with his teeth. Laid out in front of him were two plates of ketupat, two bowls of rendang, five plates of serondeng and thirty sticks of satay babat. A full tub of ice-cream awaited him in the refrigerator. It was his first meal, in half an hour.

The secret, the boy in the closet was Harris bin Potter.

The year was 2009. It was a simpler time, where nobody had to visit those damn voting booths twice in the same year - no offence to those who voted thrice in 1966. It was a simpler time for Harris bin Potter, too, for he had not yet known of his magical heritage, and had yet to enroll in the marvellous magical academy, Hog-Tak-Halal-What. For those same reasons, it was a darker, gloomier time for him as well.

Contrary to what Cik Petom believed, Harris was fasting, and right now, after 14 hours of abstaining from food and water, he desperately wanted to have something to eat. Expecting the worst of chastisements from his relatives but too hungry to care, he came out of the closet (hee hee).

"What the Joo Chiat Complex are you doing out here, boy?" roared Pak Pandir.

"I would like to break my fast," Harris said defiantly.

"And I would like to break your face," Pak Pandir told him. "Either you get back into the closet or you get out of my house!"

Angrily, Harris chose the latter and stormed out of the flat. At the void deck, he spotted a tall Chinese man studying a box of dates closely.

"Hey," Harris said to the man. "I need to break my fast. Can I have a date?"

The man smiled sheepishly. "Look, kid, I am very flattered. But I don't play for the rainbow team."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I don't play backgammon?"

"Well, neither do I. Capteh is more my thing."

"No I mean I am not a backdoor bandit. I am not a sausage jockey. No chi chi man." The man studied Harris' confused expression before realising the 11-year-old boy was not coming on to him. "Oh my God, you're just a hungry kid! I am so sorry. Here, have my phoenix dactylifer."

"We normal people call them dates," Harris said, as he accepted the two dates, or as per its binomial nomenclature for my scientist friends, phoenix dactylifera, and quickly ate them. "I am Harris. Harris bin Potter. Thank you so much, I was really starving."

"No problem. I am Eel. Sane Eel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sane Eel," Sane Eel repeated. "I am an analrapist suffering from arrested development."

Harris felt his butt involuntarily clench. "But...you just said that you weren't -"

"Oh, I should elaborate. I am a combination of an analyst and a therapist - an analrapist. You've never heard of an analrapist? There are a lot of analrapists in Port Manteau." Sane Eel studied Harris closely. "You're an orphan?"

"How did you know?" Harris asked, his face impassive.

"I picked it off your aura. You see, Harris, I am also a medium."

"Actually, I think you're a large. You're quite tall."

"No, kid. I mean I can communicate with the dead - I can help you speak to your parents. It's three more days to Hari Raya. I imagine you would really want to speak to them, especially now."

Harris thought about it, and the medium analrapist randomly carrying a box of dates around was right. He had only seen pictures of his parents, smiling at him from old photographs. He imagined what life would be like if they were still alive and hadn't died from food poisoning like his aunt and uncle told him. Without his realising it, Harris had began to tear, both from the gaping hole in his heart his parents would fill with love, and from the prospect of communicating with his Mama and Ayah.

"Take my hand," he said kindly. Harris placed his hand in Sane Eel's, and the medium closed his eyes for a long, long while.

When Sane Eel opened his eyes, it was glazed, and when he spoke, it was a voice that Harris had never heard before. Nevertheless, it was a voice heavy with a paternal love and affection. "Harris, I am so sorry we had to leave you in this world alone. Your mother and I love you so much," the voice said. "I don't have much time here, but there's something important I need to tell you."

"What is it, father?"

"Seriously Black is innocent!"

"Who is seriously black? Thats racist, father! Is it Wesley Snipes?"

"No, Seriously Black is - "

With a sudden jerk, Sane Eel snapped back to himself. He looked kindly at Harris, whose eyes were red and swollen from that brief exchange with his father. "I hope that helped make things easier for you," he said in his usual voice.

For the first time in the whole of Ramadhan, Harris managed a smile. It did make things easier. The mystery of this person named Seriously Black, whoever he was, can be resolved later. As he made his way back to Cik Petom's apartment, where he knew he would be punished for walking out the way he did, there was a warm sensation in his heart. It was a silent, bittersweet joy which, although it came from beyond the grave, allowed Harris to finally know what it was like to be loved.

Three days later, he had the best Hari Raya of his life thus far.

Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas (Part 1 of 2)

In ancient Rome, a common inscription on sundials reads, "horas non numero nisi serenas." I do not count the hours unless they are sunny. The demon counting down my dark sunless hours awaits me outside.

I write this story for many reasons. One is so that you, dear reader, dear friend, dear brother or sister, would find it and never make the same mistakes I did. I am sure that by the time you read this, I will be forever lost. But for as long as your soul is yours, do not give in to the temptations I gave in to. Do not go down the paths I did. I am a weak, stupid man. I believed that my transgressions would go on unpunished. Now I know that you can never escape your sins, a lesson I learnt much too late.


Another reason why I am writing this story is so that I can distract myself from looking out the window. But it's pointless. It knows I'm here; it has stood there for days just staring back at me with those godless red eyes. Those nightmarish eyes, shining like hellfire out of grotesque, desolate sockets. I do not know what it is, but I know it has been following me for two days, and that it is not human. So please listen, for I fear I do not have much time.


My name is Suffian. I come from a country in South-East Asia called Singapore. I am in Denver on a cocaine-cloud whim to trace the path of Jack Kerouac in his transAmerican pilgrimages to the Basilica of Our Lady of Heroin, the Cocaine Gurdwara, to the Jazz Holy of Holies. His legacy was On The Road. My legacy is this; pieces of parchment, filled with overdue laments and a desperate warning, lost in an old, squalid hotel room made less lonely by an empty bottle of the Jack I was not looking for.


My journey began at New York City, but my sins did not. There, in the concrete madness of the Big Apple, where millions of many different kinds of people are squeezed into the pressure cooker that is the city that never sleeps, I was small, wide-eyed, lost - innocent.

I spent my first night in America roaming the streets of New York, cold and alone, passing old hobos leering at the bulge in my pants. I inhaled the air of dead leaves and wet grass at Central Park, stood alone in the middle of Time Square at three in the morning.

Jet lag got the better of me the next day. One moment the bus was dipping into Holland Tunnel, the next, I had a bleary-eyed, heavy-lidded trudge through Union Station in Chicago. That night, I visited The Joynt, a jazz club in North Dearborn. In between, I caught dragons drunk and made them walk straight white lines.


The next day we reached Davenport, Iowa, and I witnessed, for the first time, the Mississippi River. As a Singaporean boy, you only read about the great river in Mark Twain novels, or you hear it mentioned in American films. It was a plot tool, a mere background. But when its vast expanse filled my vision that day, I was awed by its delectable curves, the muskegs that hide its soul away and fade out for willow-lined banks too heavily invested in the nuances of the river. 'Mississippi' was no longer a spelling problem, it was an elegant word in the Ojibwe language that meant 'Great River', and indeed, the Great River lived up to its implied majesty.

That was perhaps my last good memory as a free human being.

Illustrations by Polish artist Grzegorz Kmin/Aspius. 21st century persuasions masterfully combine with gothic sensibilities, in an exploration of the mad fragility of the human condition.

Guts by Chuck Palahniuk

Before we start, a short note.

(This entry is not suitable for kids or anyone who is easily offended by graphic depictions of sexuality and violence. Also, if you just ate, you might want to give this one a pass.)

It is National Day today and I am afraid I have a social responsibility to be socially irresponsible with my sharings tonight.

Tonight, we look at transgressive fiction, a branch of postmodern fiction that provides shelter to the cocaine-cloud street saints of the Beat movement in the 21st century. It is the haven for the Marquis de Sade’s sexual extravagance, with extra space for the perversions that accompanies the age of internet porn. It is Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment overdosing on the liberal fucks of 21st century linguistics.

Transgressive fiction is the realm of the taboo, of the things society dare not speak of. It is not Star Wars or The Land Before Time. Its intention is neither to entertain nor inspire. It seeks to discomfort the reader, while allowing the writer some platform to sneak in social commentary.

In today’s literary world, transgressive fiction is most commonly associated with Chuck Palahniuk. Some self-professed Chuck Palahniuk fans I have met only know of Fight Club, which is equivalent to being an Obama fan and only knowing that he advocates Change. Palahniuk’s works are seat-edge rides to the edge of human psychology, and it is unfortunate that not all of them have been made into movies starring Brad Pitt.

Okay now that we have set the background, I present to you Guts, a short story by Chuck Palahniuk. Before you click the link below, you may want to hold on to something. Things are going to get pretty sick from here on out.

http://chuckpalahniuk.net/features/shorts/guts

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 2

The first years lined up in front of the Great Hall, staring at the songkok that would somehow be part of their sorting ceremony. Before their very eyes, the songkok twitched. A rip at the front opened wide like a mouth - and the songkok began to sing.

Oh you may not think that I am jambu
But do not judge on what you see
Besides, I’m just a freaking songkok
How jambu can I be?
I am not some random ethnic headgear
You should know this from the start
For I am the Sorting Songkok
Of Hog-Tak-Halal-What
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be
One of four houses named for
The founders of this academy.
You might belong in Fandi Ahmad,
If you possess charm and will
When it comes to void deck soccer
They rule with unerring skill.
You might belong in Sheikh Haikel
Where they are really cool
These groovy Sheikh Haikels
Are the best musicians in school.
Or yet Anwar Ibrahim
Where the clever get it on
Here the term ’smart mat’
Is not an oxymoron.
Last and certainly least
Is George W. Bush
I will be honest - if you go there,
You probably are a douche
So put me on, little one
Do not be afraid!
I promise I will not swallow
When you give me head.

The whole Hall burst into applause as the songkok finished its song - even from the neon pink of the George W. Bush table. Professor McGonnacall stopped it dead when she said aloud, "Welcome to the sorting ceremony. First-years, when I call your name, you are to sit on the stool, and place the songkok on your head. Once you are sorted, you are to sit with your respective new houses."

"I'm going to be in Bush," Harris heard the arrogant drawl he has grown to associate only with Donnie Darko Malfoy. Harris turned to see him announce his Bushy conviction to anybody who would listen to him, which was quite a few people. "Five generations of Malfoys have been in Bush. There is so much Bush in my family that we sometimes forget about Dick." Malfoy paused to clear his throat. "My cousin Dick - he went for a Brazilian." Malfoy cleared his throat yet again, giving the scene all the gravitas of a Strepsils commercial. "-a Brazilian exchange program, so he's the only one not in George W. Bush."

"Ahmad Santiago!" Professor McGogopowerrangers called.

A short, fat boy made his way to the stool, and nervously placed the Sorting Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm," The Sorting Songkok said. "I could do with some Maggi Goreng as well. Fine…Sheikh Haikel!"

The cool blues of Sheikh Haikel erupted into celebrations. They got onto their feet, cheering. Potpourri and blue banners exploded into the air. One Sheikh Haikel boy took out his boombox and it blasted out some celebratory, beat-manic hip-hop by Malaysian masters Too Phat. Two Bboys (or if you're too Queen Astrid Park to hit the streets, two breakdancers) among their ranks got onto the table, drifting into a fluid apache step before flipping themselves mad for a sweet one-hand planche.

"Are they going to do that for every person that joins them?" Harris asked Ron.

Before Ron could answer, Professor McGotothemall called for Howe Ahmed Yomudder.

"How about our famous Harris bin Potter?" came yet another Malfoy drawl, as the tall Howe Ahmed proceeded to get sorted. "You know, Harris, I think we would make a great team in George W. Bush. Imagine me and you in the void deck quidditch team!"

Harris was beginning to really not like Donnie Darko Malfoy. "I don't want to imagine that, Malfoy," he said. "Besides, I'm a Fandi Ahmad man."

There was a an impassioned "Yeah! Yeah!" from Ron and Herr-My-Knee behind him. Malfoy turned sharply to Harris' friends. "Red hair, pasar malam clothes. You're an Izfarq aren't you? I've had the displeasure of meeting your dad, Wadyoda Nidstudu." With an obnoxious lift of his nose, Donnie Darko Malfoy added, "Your dad calls my dad 'boss'."

Ron was too angered for a retort - for him, it was the time and place to punch a bastard in the nose. Harris saw this and quickly took a step between Malfoy and Ron. "Blond hair, dead animals for clothes. You're Lady Gaga aren't you? I've had the pleasure of meeting your mom." With another step towards Malfoy, Harris added, "Your mom calls me daddy."

There was the feisty "Oh no he didn't!" of an impending Yo Momma battle, but Professor McGottabeagolfball killed it when she shouted, "Donnie Darko Malfoy!"

As he walked towards the stool, Malfoy glared at Harris. "This isn't over, Harris bin Potter!" The Songkok had barely touched Malfoy's head when it shouted, "George W. Bush!" Loud cheers erupted from the neon pink end of the Great Hall.

A few students later, Professor McGongongcha cried, "Ali Evadass Iz - Is that really your name?"

"Yes, but you can call me Ron." Ron headed to the stool and placed The Sorting Songkok on his head.

"Ugh, you don't need a house. You need shampoo!" muttered The Sorting Songkok. "Hmm… On to business. Right, right. FANDI AHMAD!"

The table marked by the golden motifs of Fandi Ahmad burst with activity as its occupants cheered. A few people did somersaults. Some of them blew kisses to the sky. A few footballs started flying around. Happily, Ron vacated the stool and joined a pair of redhead twins, whom Harris surmised must be his brothers, at the Fandi Ahmad table.

Later, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut was also sorted into Fandi Ahmad, more for will, Harris was sure, than for charm. Even so, it made Harris want to be part of Fandi Ahmad even more. He guessed being a member of Anwar Ibrahim or Sheikh Haikel would not be so bad - anything but George W. Bush.

Eventually, the old witch called, "Harris bin Potter!" This caused the entire Great Hall to explode into excited whispers. "Silence please!" commanded Professor McDonalddoll.

The entire Great Hall seemed to draw a collective breath of anticipation as Harris placed the Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm, what do we have here?" said the Songkok. "I see vestiges of the great George W. Bush in this one."

"Sweet mother of satay, please no," Harris pleaded.

"Mother of satay? Really? But why not, young one? Mmm, Fandi Ahmad appeals more to you? I see it all in your head, Harris bin Potter. Your parents were both members of Fandi Ahmad, if I recall correctly. And of course I recall correctly, I am THE Sorting Songkok."

"Please Fandi Ahmad, please Fandi Ahmad." Harris was practically begging under his breath.

The Sorting Songkok was still in the midst of an unnecessary monologue. "I wonder if anybody has noticed the inherent sexism in this system - there is no Sorting Tudung. So anyway, Harris, dear boy. I SHALL PUT YOU IN -"

Harris took in a deep breath.

The students in the Great Hall, as one, took in a deep breath.

The staff seated behind Harris took in a deep breath.

A girl in a skirt on the roof, peeping at proceedings, took in a deep breath.

I cannot explain the biology behind it, but The Sorting Songkok, too, took in a deep breath. "- FANDI AHMAD!" A deafening roar of cheers filled the Great Hall, originating from the Fandi Ahmad table. Its members were going insane dancing and punching the air. "We have Harris bin Potter! We have Harris bin Potter!" they yelled. More footballs started bouncing off the table, into the air - one of them flew to the George W. Bush table and smacked Donnie Darko Malfoy in his nose.

Harris, in the meantime, breathed a sigh of relief and started to make his way towards the welcoming arms of his fellow Fandi Ahmads.

Suddenly, he did not feel like a stranger in a new world.

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 1
When Harris finally reached the grand castle, he was greeted by the great Doubledoor. One might think that this is a reference to a wise, powerful wizard with a long white beard and says, "Alas!" like it's not the 21st century. One would be mistaken - Doubledoor is really just a big two-door system that makes up the entrance to the school. 

Harris knocked. 

"You're doing it wrong," said a voice behind him. Harris turned to see a tall, skinny Malay boy with a shock of curly red hair. "It is engraved here above the door: Giveth unto the portal two sharp raps, and it will unravel to a realm of unending, glorious sorcery…siol."

Harris knocked again, twice.

"Alamak, you bloody bodoh sial bro," the boy said. "Here, let me." The boy places one hand on the door, and takes a deep breath. 

"I like big butts and I cannot lie," he starts reciting rapidly, rhythmically and indeed, sharply. "All you other brothers can't deny. When a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waist and a round thing in your face, you get SPRUNG!" 

Harris stared at the boy, and then at the unmoving door. He wanted to say, "Well that's…good to know?" He also wanted to clarify what getting sprung entailed, but then the newcomer took another deep breath.

"To the window, to the wall," the boy recited rapidly again, but to a different rhythm. "To the sweat drip down my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfucker, all skeet skeet goddam." Harris felt like a little john being at the receiving end of such…poetry.

With the creaks of unseen mechanism, the doors slid aside to reveal a Great Hall. Everybody knows how great a hall truly is when it begins with capitals. This one was a vast, vast Hall, lit by magnificent chandeliers hanging from a high, ornate ceiling that could, at will, turn transparent to show the sky above. Girls wearing skirts would do well not to walk on the roof.

The Great Hall had four long tables with accompanying benches, and currently, they were occupied by students in brown baju kurung, the traditional costume of Malays - or in this case, the official school uniform of Hog-Tak-Halal-What. A fifth long table in front seated the school staff - including, Harris noticed happily, the Hygiene Officer Hamid.

The moment Harris walked in, the nebulous buzz of chatter ceased. They were replaced by anxious whispers, most of which Harris caught anyway.

"Is that…?" 

"No way!" 

"It's Harris bin Potter! It's the boy who tak mati siol!" 

"Do you think I can teach Snooki to weave a ketupat?"

"Ki mak, Harris bin Potter dok!"

The whispers were cut by an old witch, who said loudly, "First-years, this way please!"

--------------------

Harris and the curly-haired boy who liked big butts followed her as she ushered them into an adjoining room filled with other eleven-year-olds also not in their baju kurung. 

"I'm Ali," the curly-haired redhead boy said to Harris, as they took seats behind a mane of bushy hair that they hoped was attached to a girl. "Ali Evadass Izfarq. But you can call me Ron."

"All He Ever Does - I mean, Ali Evadass - I mean, Ron? Why?"

"When I was younger, there was an elderly Hainanese lady who gave me Math tuition. And every time I showed her my work, she would say that everything was incorrect. But I was sure I did it right, and I insisted. And she would always shout back, 'No, I correct! YOU is ron!' And I believed her."

Harris stared at his acquaintance. For somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, he sure was pretty stupid. 

The bushy-haired girl seated in front of them turned around to face them after Ron recited his story. "You know, for somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, you sure are pretty stupid," she said. 

Ron whatever-ed her, but she seemed keen to make friends with the two boys. "My name's Minah," the girl said, shaking hands with both of them, and they exchanged introductions. She then pressed on, "I'm trying to find myself a new name, and I was wondering if you two can help me." The two boys looked at each other uncertainly. It was hardly the kind of thing you asked two eleven-year-olds you just met.

"What's wrong with Minah?" asked Ron, who had changed his own name from Ali to Ron at an error in pronunciation.

"Well, I am an ambitious girl whose life will take her beyond our land," she announced, not sounding like an eleven-year-old at all. "I fear my flagrantly Malay name would be detrimental to my progress in a future career. I think I should change my name to a less Malay one."

"You know, a lot of Malay people won't be too happy hearing what you just said," Harris pointed out. "Especially Malay feminists." Yes, they exist. And they wear tudungs, too.

"How about Siti?" Ron suggested. 

Minah smacked him across his head. "Less Malay!"

After several minutes of brainstorming, in which Ron suggested 'Bedah', 'Nurul', 'Babyrina' and 'Papa Jahat', while Harris suggested 'Emma Watson', Minah exclaimed, "I should take something from the Ancient Runic language!" 

Minah extracted her Ancient Runes textbook - Ancient Runes, Sial! by Wan Prataplis - and started poring through its pages excitedly. Ancient Runes was Minah's favorite subject, and you may wonder how that came to be, since classes have yet to start for the first-years. Well, I wonder the same thing. 

"I want a name," Minah said, impassioned, "that says I am an intelligent, confident, talented young woman."

"Justin Bieber!" offered Ron. Minah smacked him again.

"Well, why not have exactly that in Ancient Runes - Intelligent, Confident, Talented Girl?" Harris took Ancient Runes Sial! from her hands, and started flipping through the pages. "We'll take each word in Ancient Runes, and combine them to make your very own brand new Ancient Runic name!"

"That's a great idea, Harris!"

"Now, what's the Ancient Runic word for intelligent," Harris thought aloud as he flipped through the pages. "There we go - Herr! Confident is…Aku! As for talented it's…Punya! And finally the Ancient Runic word for girl is…Lutut! Combine them and you get -"

"Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut!" cried the girl formally known as Minah, rising to her feet. "Listen, my friends," she said in a voice that lived up to the 'Aku' aspect of her new name."Henceforth, I shall be known as Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut, or 'Girl of Intelligence, Confidence and Talent', in the archaic language of Ancient Runes."

Ron cleared his throat. "You know, in the less archaic language of Malay, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut translates to Herr-My-Knee," he pointed out for no particular reason.

--------------------

The old witch from before reappeared a few moments later. "Allow me to introduce myself," she said in a voice so regal that whoever plays her in the movie should have played a Queen in an earlier film. Except Kirsten Dunst, because she was a crap Marie Antoinette. Also, except Kumar, because we do not mean that kind of Queen. "I am Professor McGongongall", she continued her introduction.

"Sorry?" asked a blond, arrogant-looking student who Harris would later identify as Donnie Darko Malfoy. His friends called him Double-D Malfoy, a name that gave Harris cringe-worthy mental images of anthropomorphized rabbits with large hooters. Sometimes, these images would morph into anthropomorphized owls with large hooters and this would amuse him for a while. Rarely, the anthropomorphized owls go on to morph into anthropomorphized hammers with large knockers and that would be the signal that Harris had taken the joke too far.

"My name," the old witch repeated, "is Professor McGungantroll."

"But you just said..."

"MY NAME," the old witch said again, "is Professor McGoingoinggone. Now, more pressing issues are at hand. You are all to proceed back into the Great Hall to get sorted."

Ron gasped - where he came from, one was told one would get sorted the same way the Italian mafia tells one that one would swim with the fishes. But of course, it was not to be the same thing.

Not long later, Harris found himself back in the Great Hall. This time, there was a stool in the front of the hall. On it sat a solitary black songkok. Maybe they had to try and pull out a kampong chicken from it, Harris thought. Or a rabbit. Yeah, maybe a rabbit.

The Only People For Me Are The Mad Ones

It's time to leave the nest.

I'm not the most independent person around. I'm not strong - headstrong, strong-willed, physically imposing, and all that strength-related doowop of jazz.

But you know what, I think I was meant to live my life on the road.

Hola

Hello, I need you so bad right now. I just want to fuck you, hard, senseless, feeling the tip of my dick reach the ends of your sex, deep, deep inside you, to know that I’m inside you, to feel your hot, heavy breaths on me. I know how you’ll involuntarily scream my name when I start fucking you harder, as though it was always at the tip of your tongue, but you’re looking for that push, that slide of my hard, rigid dick against your tender wetness for it to come out. I can remember how warm it feels being inside you, your weight on me, nothing like the weight that just left my shoulders. I can remember how you’ll arch your back, pushing against me, bucking against my groin because you want it hard, fast, wild as you feel yourself closer and closer to cumming. And then you’d come on my dick, drenching me, making me inexplicably addicted to your body. Addicted to you. Come back to me, and the night will forever know our love.

"Oh hey! Fancy seeing you online."
"Work? Work's fine."

Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo

This is the story of a boy.

Most sentences that begin with ‘This is the story of a boy’ go on with a ‘who’, followed by further elaboration of how he is a boy worth reading about. For example:

This is the story of a boy who has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead given to him by an evil wizard whose very name people fear to speak.

Or:

This is the story of a boy who hides away from bullies in the attic of his school, and finds himself in a fantastical quest to save the Childlike Empress with the aid of a very fucking huge dog. It is well worth noting that this dog can fly. And speak. In the language of yobs, this dog can be aptly described as ‘full of schizer’.

Well, this is the story of a boy. If indeed an elaboration is in order, then you might want to wait awhile. There are stories here that need time to come to you, like a very shy little girl tentatively approaching what seems to be her grandmother, but with larger eyes, ears and teeth. The tale of this boy needs to be coaxed out, to be told that it’s healthy to share itself for the consumption of any number of greedily inquiring minds and eyes.

Maybe it’s alright to reveal his name. It would be a good start. After all, stories are just choppy courts for a name to preside over some complicated dealings with existentialism.

The boy’s name is Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo.

Je Suis Içi!

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J’ai Retournée

I’ve been on blogging hiatus for several reasons:

• I had squirrels in my pants.
• I had to sit down, and contemplate the presence of squirrels in my pants, and wonder how in fuck they got there in the first place.
• I had to get the squirrels out of my pants.
• I've been busy with work.

But now, like my title says pretentiously in French, I have returned, and, if you care to listen, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. On a more regular basis.

Strange, But False!: The Devil's Water

Do you know that...

1) The devil's water is actually pretty sweet?
2) You do have to drink it right now.
3) You cannot dip your feet into it too often.

Moustaches

“It was the moustache that told me everything.”

Involuntarily, I flinched. It was a very common human error, to see the gun only for the trigger. To directly relate cause to effect without considering framing/circumstances, cause of cause, cause of cause of cause, indirect persuasion, human mood and the other mechanisms that allows squeezing a trigger to release a bullet.

What my friend Jimmy should have said was, “It was the moustache, above the full, pouty lips, and those breasts that told me everything.”

It told Jimmy that Sarah was Groucho Marx. For Halloween, no less.

"Si nous faisons la guerre contre la guerre, nous obtiendrons pas la paix."